


the cracks and the memories

by clayisforgirls



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 01:04:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5892163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayisforgirls/pseuds/clayisforgirls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"he doesn't know what to say, no longer looking at Andy, can't bear to see the American anymore, not like this, because he's always liked Andy"</p><p>Takes places after Andy's loss at Wimbledon 2006. Originally posted in September 2007.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the cracks and the memories

When Roger walks into the locker room, he doesn't expect Andy still to be there.

It's been over an hour since the American lost, a tough, straight-sets defeat that Roger had tuned into while he was waiting for Yves, barely paying attention until he'd realised that it was the American Andy who was losing, not the Brit who he'd thought would, and twenty minutes later he'd been dragged away and onto the practice courts, but Andy's defeat had spread like rumours and upsets always do between tennis players, and it was less than three minutes after he'd finished practice that he heard.

The fact that Andy's still here, alone, worries Roger more than anything else, because Andy's never been one to linger on his defeats. Last year Andy was done with his press conference even before he'd had time to shower, in New York Andy had been out of the city even before dawn had broken. He'd seen the American checking out of his hotel room at some ridiculous hour, a car waiting outside to take him to the airport, but he'd been alone.

Roger hadn't said a word, just slipped out of the door to get breakfast for Mirka before he slept.

Now's different though, Andy's standing next to a row of lockers, still dressed in whites, and if Roger couldn't see the rise and fall of his chest he'd think he was a statue. He isn't even sure the American knows he's there, has made no effort to even turn and see who's intruding his personal time because for once, the locker room is empty. Except him.

Bags are placed carefully onto the bench, shoes slipped off because it's so much more comfortable to walk in bare feet, and he heads over to the showers, a glance towards Andy before he steps into scalding water, cussing under his breathe before he turns it to a much more comfortable temperature. Pang of guilt because Andy was probably in here before him, and he knows the only reason players turn the water up that hot.

When he's dressed again, pristine like everyone expects him to be, and pads into the main room again, Andy hasn't moved.

"Andy," Roger says softly after trying to clear his throat doesn't get the American's attention, but that does, and Andy turns round slowly, not a hint of recognition in his pain-filled eyes. "You've been here for a while."

"Oh. Yeah. Got distracted."

Roger cringes that Andy isn't able to meet his eyes and he takes a step towards him, hoping that it'll shake the American out of whatever mood he's gotten himself into this time. He's seen the mood swings of him before, the destruction he's left in his wake, Andy's legendary for them, but they're usually shaken off in a couple of hours. This is the first time he's ever seen Andy visibly distressed, unable to shake the disappointment off with a longer string of swear words than he'd ever heard before of the satisfying crushing of a racquet.

"You okay?"

He cringes as soon as he's said the words because it's stupid, can see that Andy is far from okay and Andy does nothing but shake his head and bite his lip, unable to get the words out. 

"I was looking forward to playing you in the final," he says quietly, sensing that even the slightest thing could set Andy off right now, the pain visible in his eyes turning to cold, hard anger.

"Why, so that you could kick my ass in even more spectacular fashion?" comes the quick reply, and there's something else on the tip of Andy's tongue, can see him bite it back before his eyes soften again, pain retuning. Slump to his shoulders as he sinks onto the nearest bench, a gesture that Roger knows is usually reserved for his nearest and dearest.

He'd seen it last year, just a glimpse on court as he'd help the trophy, afterwards as Andy had trudged downstairs to change alone.

"That... I'm sorry," and the apology is barely audible, even in the deadly silent room. "It's not your fault I've had such a shit year."

"You'll get your mojo back," and it's said with a smile, a tease in his voice, that word long forbidden in the locker room purely because of Andy's usual reaction, but he hopes that this one he'll let it slide, understand that it's teasing, no maliciousness meant.

Reaction is just a glare, Andy's mouth curling into a wry smile, no retort, but no acceptance of the teasing either, watches as Andy's eyes begin to water as he bites his lip again, close to crying and Roger mentally berates himself for bringing that up. Everyone knows not to mention it to the American, and he should really know better.

Damp cotton is heaped in a pool by his feet, Andy hunched over on the bench, skin gleaming in the fluorescent lighting, realises he's staring as Andy's mouth twists into the closest thing to a grin that he can seemingly manage right now.

"You think there was much point me even showing up this year, Rog? Considering you were going to win it from the moment you stepped onto Centre Court."

"I could have lost just as easily as you, Andy," and he watches Andy nod just slightly, eyes darting to the floor for just a second, "Richard's beaten me before, Tim too-"

"But you didn't lose. You never lose, not here, not for a long time. Maybe they should just write your name on that trophy now and save everyone some energy, give them a fucking vacation for all I care."

There's desperation in his voice, the need to win here – or anywhere right now – raw, the bitterness of defeat still evident. And he doesn't know what to say, no longer looking at Andy, can't bear to see the American anymore, not like this, because he's always liked Andy, always enjoyed playing him, and he doesn't want to see this. Doesn't quite know how to deal with it.

"You don't get it anymore, do you," he carries on, softer this time. "You've got everything, it's all sitting in some glass cabinet at home, probably, the trophies collecting dust that's cleaned by the maid. Am I right, Roger?"

Bitterness is still evident, despite the softness and he flinches, because Andy's right, and suddenly he's just a little bit ashamed, knows that Andy would clean every single one himself when he was home, because they're all proof of his success as a player. Something that Andy prides himself on, that his country judges himself on, and it's just another little piece of why Andy's hurting, beginning to realise how broken the American is right now.

And he still doesn't know what to say, can't find the words, so he just stays silent, hopes that it's what Andy needs right now.

"Of course I'm right," and it's muttered, barely able to catch the words, no time to form a reply, because Andy's still talking, just like always. "You think I'm pathetic. Andy Roddick, priding himself on the slams he's won, on his ranking, the fact that I've worked so hard this year and it's not showing but I have, Roger. I really have, but you think of me like a bug you can squash on your way to another trophy, another slam. A bug that the entire tour can read like a book now. Maybe I should give up now, save myself the embarrassment of sliding down the rankings. Just be done with it because I'm out of the top ten now. I'm not even twenty-four and I'm already a has-been, James is the American star now, and he can have it for all I care, he's-"

"You don't meant that," he interrupts, and Andy's head snaps up; he expects a smart remark or even a glare but he doesn't get anything more than a desperate look. One he recognises as a cry for help.

"It's crossed my mind," Andy finally says, "quitting."

"You're a better player than this. I know you are."

"I used to be. When I won a slam, when I beat you, when I was world number one. Now I just suck."

It's said with a hollow smile, his eyes belying it, pain visible to anyone who looked.

"You'll fix it."

"I don't know how," and there's nothing but hopelessness in his voice, something he's never heard from Andy Roddick before. Knows the Andy who always believed in his chances, even when the odds were against know, knows the Andy who always believed he could win another slam. But this isn't that Andy, it's not even close, this one's lost everything that made him into the force he once was. Every loss that Andy's taken, it's made him into this, and there's a twinge of guilt, because it's partly his fault, though he didn't think anything of it last year. Always expected Andy to bounce back, like he had done before.

But looking at Andy right now, this loss looks much worse, he looks as though he's a man who's just lost everything he's ever wanted, and to Andy, he probably has. He doesn't know how to respond, not to this Andy, so he gently moves to the American's side, rests a hand on his shoulder, softly rubbing circles under bare skin, shoulders shaking under his hand.

And when Andy looks up at him, eyes puffy, red rimmed, he's ready with the cotton shirt for Andy to wipe his tears with, and there's a watery smile, a real one, nothing like the ones from years past but already it's an improvement.

"I didn't mean to cry on you," Andy starts quietly, eyes darting away again, trying to hide his weaknesses again, "but thank you."

"It's... it's no problem." He pauses for a moment, returning Andy's small smile. "What are you going to do now?"

"It's called a shower, Rog. You tend to need them after matches," and Roger can't help but laugh, because it's the classic Roddick humour he's so used to, something he didn't expect to hear so soon after Andy was hunched over, crying like he'd lost everything. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he says with a smile, "go shower, Andy."

"As the master says," he jokes, and gets up, face to face with Roger and before he knows what's happening Andy's hugging him, and he leans into it. It's familiar, especially at Wimbledon, remembers the two hugs from years past fondly and this is no different, it's still Andy.

"In case I forget next time I see you, congratulations."

And then Andy's gone, halfway across the room before he has time to respond and by then it's too late. There's a smile on his face as he picks up his bags, because there's a tiny bit of the old Andy back, a bit of the Andy who would never give up, who joked with him before matches and teased him afterwards, the Andy who wouldn't give up trying to win that second slam if it killed him.

It doesn't hit him until he's heading back to his rented house that the concern over Andy borders on something that's more than friendly, Andy would probably call it a crush but it's not quite that, it's something else, something he can't really define. Definitely more than he should have for a supposed rival, though Andy's right about that, it has never really been the rivalry it was made out to be.

When Mirka asks him where he's been and kisses him on the cheek, he knows that he should be forgetting about the American.

Except the moment he closes his eyes, his girlfriend asleep next to him, all he can see are the dark hazel eyes of Andy Roddick, and they make him shiver.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Screenager" by Muse.


End file.
